


Guilty Pleasure

by beltainefaerie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anonymous Sex, Group Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Orgies, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, References to Drug Use, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 22:23:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie/pseuds/beltainefaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's thoughts for his flatmate have taken an unexpected turn and he takes matters into his own hands, so to speak, to try to relieve his tension.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guilty Pleasure

When he needed to clear his mind, when he felt restless and simply couldn’t think anymore, when he just needed to get out of his very brilliant own head for a bit, he shot up and went searching. He rarely went out socially otherwise. He certainly never fucked sober. Of course he had opportunities, but Sherlock had never needed anything so _boring_ as an actual boyfriend. Occasional rent boys, and pub hook-ups, as necessary, served to relieve tension, to remind him that he was alive.

He knew when other people wanted him. He observed, occasionally flirted back, to practice mimicry, to learn about people and just what buttons to push, but that was as far as it had gone for years. Sex had never sounded appealing, never brought out that driving need he saw in others, until that first hit. He wasn’t prepared for the effect, desire instantly, intimately, and exclusively linked with the high. Sex was neither boring nor alarming then. Just one more thing to feel. From one night stands to back room orgies, it was all so easy to touch and be touched, igniting in his veins, making him crave... more. More than one patron at _Fire_ had declared him an insatiable cock slut, and in those moments, he was, like someone had found the switch to turn him on. 

_Those were the times that I had never wanted to be sober again._  


He rarely indulged in carnal pleasures on his own. Certainly not since he had been clean. But lately there was a shift, desires creeping subtly into his everyday consciousness. With the days of getting high behind him, he was quite surprised to find that John had been, rather unwittingly, pushing into a previously unoccupied space in his mind, desire seeping around the edges of their interactions. It was maddening. _Dangerous._ Pushing the limits of his endurance, if he was honest about it. 

So Sherlock gave in and now lay back on his bed remembering the hot, slow drag of skin against skin in exquisite detail, letting himself get achingly hard before even beginning to touch himself. He knew the feel of another cock pressed against his. Recalling the sensations made his cock throb with a jolt of desire. Oh, he had reveled in it, long before the Work had given him an outlet for his particular need to be challenged. 

It seemed ages ago, all tied together with dark, smoky rooms, fumbling in back rooms and alleys, nicotine stained fingers working buttons and zip, everyone trying to get off while the high lasted. Everything heightened, the sounds, moans and panting breath mingling with the strangely hypnotic music most of the clubs had played. Their touch, the press of nameless, naked bodies against his, hands everywhere, tacky with sweat or slicked with lubricant from the ubiquitous little packets they gave away. The salty musk flavor of their skin, as he licked a wet stripe up someone’s neck or the plush curve of inner thighs. The sensation of soft skin over bone as he traced collarbones with lips and tongue and grazed with teeth. Even laying in his soft bed, he could almost feel the hard scrape of concrete on his knees as he remembered, and the way his eyes pricked with tears when his mouth was taken so forcefully that he could scarcely breathe. Once he had nearly passed out, but he had hardly ever felt so alive. 

It was always different and that was part of the point. Always a pursuit of something he hadn’t done before, never wanting to be bored. Top or bottom, slow build or rough and rushed, voyeur or participant. Even if it was all sex, it was so compellingly different. 

Seeing how many cocks could he suck in one night bore no resemblance to the thrill of enticing the businessman who was clearly always much more discreet than this in his affairs. Sherlock had gotten hard just knowing that this man would dream for years to come about the beautiful, raven-haired boy who seduced him in London and when he finally begged to be fucked in the alley behind the club, Sherlock was more than delighted to oblige. 

_Everything had felt so different then._

Sherlock exhaled slowly as his hands slid down his chest, his hips, his thighs. Spreading his legs wider, he let his fingertips graze the soft flesh of his inner thighs, sensitizing the skin. Barely touching, straying ever closer to his hardness until he reached his balls. He traced circles over them, feeling the skin drawing even more taut. He cupped his hand, rolling them gently against his palm before finally allowing himself to touch his stiff cock. He took himself in hand and dragged slowly up and down his length. His own touch wasn’t the same, and didn’t have that sparkling, sharp quality as he remembered. He couldn’t quite sort whether that was the fact that he could perfectly anticipate his own movements or simply the lack of drugs. 

_Of course it isn’t the same, but it still quite good._ He arched his back, biting his lip to stifle a moan. He tried to focus his thoughts on one instant, one encounter, but he was scattered. Even though his mind filled in a million details from his previous encounters, it became John. _Always John._ Until finally, he gave up trying to control it. 

After that, he was utterly abandoned to pleasure, imagining John pressed against him, John’s mouth seeking his. John’s hand working over his length. John’s lips stretched around him. 

His prick was responsive and leaking freely, with enough precome to lubricate his way. He circled his thumb through it before dragging his palm over the sensitive head. His hand worked faster as he edged closer to completion, but it wasn’t enough. 

Fumbling, he found what he needed, a small bottle of lubricant from his nightstand drawer. He managed to get it open, coating his fingers. As he resumed his strokes with one hand, the other strayed to his tight puckered hole, gently pressing. John working him open, filling him. John fucking him, driving deep inside him until he came. At the thought of John’s hot come filling him to overflowing, Sherlock’s hand stilled, gripping the base of his prick as he came, streaking his stomach and chest with white. 

He lay back for a few minutes, nearly succumbing to sleep, before rousing himself enough to fetch a flannel and wash up. 

Throwing on his blue robe, he walked to the kitchen. 

“Morning.” John greeting him, barely glancing up from the article he was reading. After a moment, John got up and fixed tea. Eventually he extended a mug and Sherlock took it, their fingers brushing. It was electric. Any hope that breaking down and actually masturbating might have helped purge these traitorous desires, vanished. If anything, it seemed to have solidified them. 

As he took the cup from John, he felt warmth suffuse his cheeks. 

_Oh, this was not good._

“Are you feeling alright?” John asked, doctorly concern in his tone. 

“Fine. Yes.” Sherlock barked and stalked away to his chair. 

_Not good at all._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Merinda for beta-ing!
> 
> I might add more to this, and if so, transform it from a one-sided relationship and into johnlock


End file.
